


we've already done that joke

by Prim_the_Amazing



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Amnesia, M/M, Minor docnut, POV Alternating, in which grif forgets about all of his baggage, minor sargrey, the towers on chorus are the best fucking fic fodder ever, tucker ships it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2017-09-04
Packaged: 2018-11-14 14:20:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11209836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Prim_the_Amazing/pseuds/Prim_the_Amazing
Summary: Why the fuck did he have to spend five minutes convincing him that Dexter Grif was in fact his name, but the guy knew Star Wars references on an instinctual level?





	1. Tall with a rocket launcher

**Author's Note:**

> what if i just kept writing fluffy grimmons fics until theyre friends again in canon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Sorry, could you repeat that?" Tucker asked. His ears were still ringing. He blinked rapidly, reminding himself that he had to stop looking straight at explosions, no matter how cool they were. 
> 
> "I _said,"_ Grif repeated, "That dude is, like, exactly my type!" 
> 
> (It looked like he wasn't the only one who could kiss Simmons.) 
> 
> Tucker's mind stalled. Lopez brained a mercenary with his blunt robo hand off in the distance. No fucking way. 
> 
> "... Tall with a rocket launcher?" 
> 
>  _"Tall with a rocket launcher,"_ Grif confirmed happily, his visor (and presumably his eyes) fixed on a swiftly approaching Simmons. 

The mega awesome magical alien towers on Chorus that gave only Tucker basically super powers when he was in them were the worst, he decided. They were the worst fucking thing ever. 

"Holy shit, you have a light saber!" Grif said as Tucker activated his sword to cut down a pirate that was stupid enough to get in his way. 

And this absolutely wasn't his fault. Even if he was the only one who could activate any of the towers to access their mega awesome magical alien super powers. He rehearsed that line in his mind ("This isn't my fault! Honest! Pinky swear!"), ready to preemptively throw it in all of his superior officers faces, including Wash, Carolina, Grey, Kimball, Doyle, and even Sarge-- actually, he might be happy about this? Having Sarge on his side patting his back wouldn't exactly help make him look good to all of the others who could assign him the extra laps and shitty missions, though. 

"Jesus Christ, we've already done that joke!" Why the fuck did he have to spend five minutes convincing him that Dexter Grif was in fact his name, but the guy knew Star Wars references on an instinctual level? 

"We have?" Genuine confusion colored Grif's voice, no teasing fake innocence or barely veiled apathy to it at all. It was surreal. Any sort of genuine emotion from him was kinda weird, actually, unless it was justified fear at the end of an enemy's gun, laziness, or snark. And Tucker wasn't entirely sure laziness or snark counted as emotions. 

It really, really wasn't his fault though. Grif shouldn't have been walking around like a dumbass bumping into shit while Tucker had his sword out (bowchickabowwow) and was trying to figure out what the tower did! 

"Yes, we have! Now start shooting people already!" Swish swish stab-- fuck, ow! Tucker made sure to stab the pirate that grazed him extra hard. 

"Uhhhhhh," Grif said. 

"Oh my god, do _not_ tell me you've forgotten how to shoot, too! Here's a hint, moron, safety off, point, and shoot! There are only so many flippy bits on a gun!" Okay so sue him, being flooded by the enemy with only an alien-technology/magic-mindfucked ally who didn't remember being his ally at his back for backup stressed him out. You'd think being Caboose's teammates for years and years would've prepared him for something like this, but noooo. 

"This is _not_ a gun. It's some kind of... knifle?" 

Oh god. "It's the Grifshot," Tucker groaned.

"Was that supposed to mean something to me?" 

"It's your signature weapon, man!" A bullet whizzed dangerously close to his head. _"Just figure it out!"_

There followed several sweaty minutes full of grunt and swears (from Tucker trying to take down a squad of pirates on his own, the mercenaries at his front being cut down by his badass sword skillz regardless, and Grif at his back, fumbling desperatedly with the Grifshot) instead of witty hilarious banter, and then a moment after Grif finally managed to make his damn weapon go off (it went wide and he controlled the recoil so badly it visibly knocked the wind out of him, leaving him wheezing and dangerously stunned) there was the sound of distant but rapidly closing in polka music and screaming pirates. Tucker rolled his eyes so hard he was afraid for a moment he'd somehow managed to pull an eyeball. Of course, the second Grif started getting his shit together the cavalry he'd called ages ago finally arrived. 

"Is that... po--"

"Yes, it's polka music," he answered long sufferingly. The familiar question tinged with the usual uncertainty and incredulity didn't invoke as much smug schadenfreude in him as it usually did. Grif of all people should recognize that damn hell music as well as his own sister's face. 

"YOU JUST GOT SARGED!" 

_"I would like to vote that we never let the pink idiot drive again."_

"Aww, thanks Lopez!" 

"Grif!!!" 

Of course it was just the Reds who'd come for them. They _were_ never doing anything useful. 

Tucker broke through the last of the bastards in between him and his way outside with an exhausted, angry snarl, Grif trailing behind him, holding the Grifshot cautiously like it was going to piston its way back into his gut at great speed again entirely on its own this time. The sight made him feel a twinge of guilt that he did _not_ like. Grif usually lugged the thing around with this lazy, calm confidence that he hadn't even noticed until it was gone. 

They finally broke out of the tower to see sunshine, a single semi crashed Warthog (damn it, everyone was gonna have to sit in someone's lap), four Reds spilling out of it like idiot ants while enthusiastically waving around their weapons of choice, and a good two dozen more pirates at _least._  And there was, like, fifty feet of space between them and the Warthog. Uuuugh. 

And that was when Simmons jumped away from the vehicle mounted turret (no! the idiot!) and removed one of the biggest assest rocket launchers he had ever fucking seen (yes! the idiot!), presumably ducktaped to the side or some shit because there was no god damn way that thing would fit in any sort of compartment. It was the sort of thing you mounted on a sturdy as shit tripod. Or just held, if you were Caboose, or, you know, a cyborg with a prosthetic arm strong enough to rip a phone book in half. But what were the odds you had a guy like that just hanging around? 

Tucker swore he could kiss Simmons in that moment, seriously. 

Donut threw a sticky grenade, Sarge shot at someone with his shotgun at far too great a distance, Lopez started swearing at the enemy (or them?) in Spanish, and Simmons planted his feet firmly, took aim, and killed like half of all of the enemies with one shot. 

"Sorry, could you repeat that?" Tucker asked. His ears were still ringing. He blinked rapidly, reminding himself that he had to stop looking straight at explosions, no matter how cool they were. 

"I _said,"_ Grif repeated, "That dude is, like, exactly my type!" 

(It looked like he wasn't the only one who could kiss Simmons.) 

Tucker's mind stalled. Lopez brained a mercenary with his blunt robo hand off in the distance. No fucking way. 

"... Tall with a rocket launcher?" 

 _"Tall with a rocket launcher,"_ Grif confirmed happily, his visor (and presumably his eyes) fixed on a swiftly approaching Simmons. 

This was it. His opportunity. He could end over a decade of painful sexual tension _right now._

"Oh my god, the shit Wash is gonna give me for this will have _all been worth it._ Grif, listen, tall with a rocket launcher is single as fuck, weak to flattery, and a huge nerd. Use that!" 

"Are you my wingman or some shit?" 

"Dude," Tucker said with feeling. "I'm your goddamn guardian angel." 

"Grif!" Simmons finally met them, barely stopping himself from crashing into Grif, hand clasping down on his shoulder. Tucker didn't even bother bitching about _his_ lack of warm greetings. He was watching The Show. "Are you okay? It was garbled, but Tucker made it sound like something had happened to you?" He looked like he was barely restraining himself from ripping Grif's armor off to start looking for injuries. 

Grif looked like he wanted to peel off Simmons' armor too, but for entirely different reasons, and that he'd possibly take the opportunity and savor the experience more while he was at it. 

"Uh, yeah," he eventually answered dazedly. Tucker stealthily prodded him in the back while Sarge howled battle cries in the distance (like a dozen feet away, but whatever, he could handle it, _Tucker deserved to see this damn it)._ "That thing with the rocket launcher, that was cool!" _Flattery._ Good, good. Now he just had to make a sexual innuendo, tastefully call attention to it to make sure it was appreciated, and move in for the kill. 

"Oh my god, you've hit your head!" Simmons wailed after a baffled moment. Tucker admitted to himself that Grif would never willingly, out loud, unironically, and to his face call Simmons cool if he was in his right state of mind. Well, this wasn't going as planned at all. Damn it, did he have to give them _both_ amnesia? 

"What? No. Well, uh, maybe. It doesn't hurt, anyways. But that was seriously hot!" 

 _"Oh my god you have traumatic brain injury,"_ Simmons wailed louder. 

"No, god damn it!" He paused. "Okay, well, maybe I do have that, considering. But that's besides the point. Can I have your number?" 

"You already have my comm frequency! What are you talking about!?" 

 _"Nice._ " Grif fist pumped. "Looks like I've got mad game. Great going, me!" 

 _"What have you done to him,"_ Simmons demanded, turning on Tucker. Well, this had been a mistake. 

"This isn't my fault! Honest! Pinky swear!" Hey, practice for when he was in front of his superior officers! 

Simmons' reaction did not have promising things to say about his future for when he tried that one out on people that actually had a spine the majority of the time instead of only a rare sometimes (like now, inconveniently). Maybe Doyle would buy it? 

"Well, uh, there are still some pirates left sooo, looks like I've gotta bounce!" He quickly made his excuses, already slowly backing away from the conversation. Simmons took an unusually threatening step towards him and Tucker decided to just cut and run. He couldn't resist a parting, "And don't give up, Grif! I've heard this guy gives _great head!"_ over his shoulder. 

Simmons squawked. Grif gave him a thumbs up. At least someone around here appreciated him. 


	2. obligated to hit it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Rocket Hottie tenderly runs his hands through Grif’s hair, he hopes that they know each other in a _biblical_ sense. And that maybe they could get to know each other in a biblical sense again, since his memory’s currently a blank slate and all that.

Okay, so, clearly he knows Tall With A Rocket Launcher. He’d called him by name, after all. (The blue guy seriously hadn’t been fucking with him that his name was _Dexter Grif?_ That sounded like a cartoon character, holy shit.)

As Rocket Hottie tenderly runs his hands through Grif’s hair, he hopes that they know each other in a _biblical_ sense. And that maybe they could get to know each other in a biblical sense again, since his memory’s currently a blank slate and all that.

“Mind taking off your helmet?” he suggests, because how are they supposed to make out like this? Also, he wants to scope out that face.

 _“You’re_ the one who’s being examined here,” Hottie says, prodding at the back of his head gently with his fingers, clearly looking for a sensitive spot. Grif could show him a sensitive spot, all right.

“Ooh, nurse play,” he teases, and Hottie splutters again, his grip on Grif’s hair tightening for a moment (WOW). He has known this guy for all of ten minutes (technically longer, but he isn’t counting shit he can't recall), and he’s already lost count of how many times this guy’s lost his cool over something he’s said. It’s adorable. Adorableness and hotness in one maroon package; what a deal. Grif is practically _obligated_ to hit it at this point.

“Did I somehow get the wrong Grif!? Because you’re seriously reminding me of Sister right now, it’s eerie--”

“Dirtbag!” interrupt a Southern accent, and Hottie’s hands snap away from Grif’s head faster than you can blink. Grif frowns up at the bright red suddenly appearing cockblocker.

“Sarge!” Hottie gasps, and until now since he’d shown up his focus had been solely on Grif. Well, looked like that was over.

‘Sarge’ ignores Hottie. Well, there’s no accounting for taste. “Why can’t I recall the distinctive sound of the Grifshot firing during the glorious battle we were all almost gruesomely murdered in five minutes ago, maggot?” It isn’t really a question, Grif can tell. This guy’s obviously already decided to be pissed at him no matter what he says, so he doesn’t bother saying anything at all. Just thinking about it sounds like too much of a wasted effort.

“And why aren’t you grievously injured!?” he carries on without Grif’s input. One the one hand, yay, he isn’t being forced to contribute! On the other, oh god, who knows how long he’ll be able to go on on his own? If he put his helmet back on, would he be able to stealth nap his way through it? He bet he’d know if he had his memories.

“Sir, that’s a good thing,” Hottie interjects, and Grif smiles at him. Hottie squeaks, and Grif smiles wider. _Cute._

“I was led to believe by that damned Blue that Grif had been horribly mangled by alien technology at the very least! Treacherous Blues…”

“I, uh, I think the damage might just not be very visible, sir. He seems really confused. He keeps speaking nonsense.”

“Nonsense?” Grif asks.

“Um, you know, stuff like… remember Sister? He sounds like that. Maybe he’s concussed?”

Sarge stills, seemingly to just take that in. “Grif… I never realized that you’d gone through the pains of overcoming your innate nature as a pervert to spare those around you having to witness that. I… if I was capable of displaying gratitude towards you, I would do so now. But I can’t and I won’t. Get up off your lazy ass and get in the driver’s seat.”

“HEY GUYS,” the Blue guy called from the entrance to the tower some distance away towards them, sitting and standing by the Warthog. “DONUT AND I GOT THE DEETS FROM SANTA ABOUT WHAT’S UP! WAIT, WERE YOU GUYS LEAVING WITHOUT US JUST NOW?”

“So close!” Sarge swore. “We could’ve stranded a Blue, Grif, and we didn’t because of your incompetence. I’d shoot you if I wasn’t out of ammo!”

“... That was a joke, right?” Grif asked Hottie. Hottie’s helmet tilted away in a way that suggested that he was avoiding eye contact.

“We’d be abandoning Donut too, Sarge.” Hottie got up to walk towards the Tower, and he reached out a hand to help Grif up. Grif smiled again, distracted from death threats, and took the offered hand, standing up.

“Have some faith in your fellow Red. I’m sure he’d be able to overpower him and eat him first. Lopez, watch the vehicle!”

_“And guard it from who? Everyone but us here is dead.”_

“Um, Grif?” Hottie’s voice went uncertain and cracked, but his attention was back on Grif, so.

“Hmm?” he asked idly, rubbing circles into the back of Hottie’s hand with his thumb while they walked.

“You’re still holding my hand.”

“Yup,” Grif agreed. “That sure is what’s happening. The sky’s blue, too.”

“Don’t remind me,” Sarge grunted. Grif wished he’d jog a little ways off or something.

“He’s _gotta_ be concussed,” Hottie muttered to himself, but he didn’t let go of his hand.

“Nah,” the Blue guy said, apparently catching it as they walked up to the entrance. “He’s got amnesia! Did I not mention that earlier?”

“Oooh,” Hottie said with sudden understanding audible in his voice. “That… still doesn’t explain all of his behavior, actually.”

“So, we’ve got a blank slate Grif, huh?” Sarge asked, or, Grif suspected to be more likely, said to himself. “Looks like it’s finally time to see which one’s more influential: nature or nurture. Would trying to make a useful soldier out of a Grif be playing god, do you think?” he asked the pink one that Grif thought was Donut. (And he thought _his_ name sounded ridiculous.)

“He’s not going to stay like this forever, Sarge!” Donut said. “Don’t worry, it’s the first thing we asked Santa! Apparently his old memories are going to come back to him with time.”

 _“Only_ with time,” Blue guy added darkly.

“How soon?” Hottie asked eagerly. After a moment he shuffled his feet and cleared his throat awkwardly, apparently embarrassed by revealing his excitement and relief.

“Uh, yeah, about that,” Blue guys said. “So it turns out that Sangheili, these particular dead ass Sangheili at least, do not have translatable measurements of time.”

“We have no idea when Grif’s getting better,” Donut said.

“Could be tomorrow,” Blue guy said. “Could be years.”

It turned out Hottie was a fainter.


	3. the shit teenage wet dreams are made of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It is, to put it mildly, a tense drive back to base.

It is, to put it mildly, a tense drive back to base. One of the reasons is that Simmons won’t let Grif drive on account of his brain being very recently and thoroughly fucked by alien magitech, Simmons _apparently_ drives like a little old lady, Donut only has a license for a tractor, and Sarge both has shockingly and worryingly poor eyesight and refuses to enter a vehicle piloted by a Blue. So Lopez drives. It’s… it’s kind of like the driving equivalent of using Google Translate to read something in another language. Clearly, expenses _were_ spared in the Sim Trooper robot kit’s making. He tries to suggest that he can drive, really guys, but even Donut uncomfortably chimes in that really, it’s fine, Lopez’s driving isn’t so bad! Simmons was only mildly mollified when Lopez immediately drove over a pothole after Donut said that which made him bite down on his tongue.

His driving is _not_ that bad.

He kind of wishes that Grif hadn’t been conspicuously silent when everyone else had been complaining about how slow he was, though, because that would at least mean he could remember something about Simmons. Anything.

The other reason why the drive back to base is so tense is that everyone’s sitting on someone else’s lap. Stupid fucking Warthogs. Normally, Simmons would be relatively used to this. Red Team really liked its Warthogs, and they definitely have more than just three teammates. This is far from the first time they’ve had to do this. But… usually Grif was the one driving. And the driver’s view had to be unobstructed, and his reach for the pedals and steering wheel unobstructed, so even Sarge had to relent and give Grif a pass from the humiliation that was a Red field trip. Simmons usually ended up with Donut sitting on him (and Sarge alternating sitting on or under Lopez, depending on who’d won the latest round of rock paper scissor), while Grif sat free and alone and usually smugly mocking. _That’s_ what he was used to.

But now they’re six instead of five (damned Blues indeed), and everyone has to take a hit for the team. Sarge refuses to be in any sort of physical contact with Grif if it isn’t violent, Donut and Tucker immediately buddied up and then started whispering and snickering to each other while glancing at him and Grif in a way that he thinks is supposed to be sneaky, and Lopez… Simmons doesn’t really know what Lopez’s deal is, still, and he’s not so sure he wants to find out. Hasn’t he tried to kill them before?

So, yeah, Simmons ends up sitting on Grif’s lap because if they did it the other way around Simmons is pretty sure he’d lose his other leg to loss of blood flow. This would be bad enough in any other situation, but with Grif the way he is right now… Simmons wonders sometimes if the universe is sentient and actually literally plotting against him.

Lopez drives over another pothole (not a whole lot of tax dollars have been spared for road maintenance on Chorus lately, considering) and Simmons yelps and tightens his arms around Grif’s neck and shoulders, pressed as close to him as possible, and Grif tightens the hand he has on his hip in response, the other one braced on a part of the Warthog to try and keep them from swaying as much as possible. Why don’t most military vehicles have seatbelts!? It’s not like people suddenly stop being able to die in simple car crashes once they enter a war!

Grif’s put his helmet back on by now, so he can’t tell if he’s still staring at him. He’s stared at him a lot so far, this afternoon. It’s weird. Lots of the things Grif’s doing are weird right now, in ways that can’t just be explained away with ‘he can’t remember’. He suspects that that Tower did something more to Grif, and wishes they’d stayed behind at least a little longer so he could interrogate Santa further. But Donut had a point, they should have Grif looked over by Grey. (Nevermind that said point had been brought up just to reassure Simmons that they _totally_ weren’t going back just to have Simmons’ fainting ass checked up on and oh god was _that_ why they wouldn’t let him drive?)

“Hey, hottie,” Grif says. “Mind taking your helmet off?”

“Wha,” he says. “WHAT.”

“Well, you’ve seen _my_ face!”

“You’ve already seen my face! And what did you just call me!?”

“It doesn’t count if I don’t remember it.”

No, nope, nuh uh, that wasn’t true, because if things Grif didn’t remember didn’t count then their _entire relationship_ up until now didn’t count and _ahahahah NO_

Instead of even remotely confronting that little potential mental breakdown, he focused on the other part of what Grif had said. “Don’t try and change the topic. What did you just--”

“Well, no one introduced us!”

They hadn’t? Fuck, they’re _really_ dumb.

“But that, that doesn’t mean you have to call me-- I’m not--” Simmons briefly chokes on his own words, unsure whether or not he should try and argue that he isn’t hot. He pretty objectively _isn’t,_ but that’s not something you’re supposed to admit to, he thinks, or at least not vehemently argue for.

“Show your face and prove it, phantom of the opera!”

“Oh my god, HOW do you still know so many pop cultural references!? Seriously, it’s bothering the fuck out of me!” Tucker burst out, and Simmons freezed, abruptly remembering that he was having this argument in a very small car with four other people present. “You can’t just play fast and loose with the rules of amnesia like that--”

“Tucker!” Donut scolded him, and Simmons wished Grif would let go of him so he could just throw himself off of the Warthog right now thanks, perhaps after telling Lopez to speed up another hundred miles an hour too.

“Oops, shit, sorry. Please ignore me and continue with your lover’s quarrel.”

“I think it’s more of a flirty banter sort of thing,” Sarge mused, and really, Simmons just wanted to die. He’d been hoping that Sarge’s tinnitus would have spared him from his superior officer overhearing what’s shaping up to easily be one of the top ten most embarrassing conversations he’s ever had with Grif, which really says something considering the sheer quantity of them.

“You heard the man, ignore him,” Grif said.

Simmons had been muted by sheer mortification at this point. Grif sighed.

“Why _do_ you call him hottie?” Tucker asked. “You’ve only seen him in full power armor so far.”

“Besides, I’d really classify him more as cute than hot,” Donut chimed in. Simmons hoped they crashed and _all died_ so this conversation would be lost from history and also any chance of spreading _._

“He can be both,” Grif defended. “And anyways, did you see that rocket shit he pulled, appearing out of nowhere like a knight in shining maroon armor with a metric fuck ton of explosives and incendiaries? That’s the shit teenage wet dreams are made of.”

 _Why_ did Simmons have to have one of his ultra rare moments of cool in front of Grif when he was like _this? (_ He couldn't even brag about it. The fun part about doing cool shit was getting to rub it in Grif's grimacing face. If he tried that now he might actually _agree_  with him _. The horror.)_

Because the universe was sentient and plotting against him, duh.

“I,” Simmons said. How was he supposed to deal with the fact that he just learned that this new Grif was somehow attracted to him? And that everyone else in the car knew it too, now? And that knowing these people, soon the rest of Chorus would know too? And that as soon as his memories returned he’d abruptly _stop_ being attracted to him and probably be disgusted he ever had been and he _hadn’t even known men were a potential option for Grif did the Tower affect sexual orientations too somehow or--_

The answer, of course, was predictable, easy, familiar, and above all else, inevitable if you knew Simmons: just ignore it and hope it went away on its own. Fuck confronting your emotions!

“I am not taking off my fucking helmet while Lopez is driving, are you insane? I’ve never needed my helmet more!”

“Tease,” Grif grumbled.

“I have done absolutely nothing to encourage this,” Simmons said, sitting on Grif’s lap and clinging to him.

So, yeah. It was a tense ride back to base. Not that things got better once they arrived, of fucking course.


	4. Who hasn’t daydreamed about the Terminator?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Screw you, this is my food,” Hottie said, and finally reached up to take off his helmet. 
> 
> “Holy shit,” Grif said.

“This does seem like something that would happen to you guys,” the dude in grey and yellow armor sighs. 

“Hey, fuck you, no it’s not,” Hottie grumps, picking at his food while glaring at it. Presumably. He hasn’t taken his helmet off yet. This guy sure knows how to draw things out. “This would totally usually be a Blue Team problem. It technically is, seeing as Tucker was the  _ cause _ of the it. He just dragged us into it. As usual.” 

“Now, now, there’s no need to find someone to blame,” Donut says. 

“Because we’ve already found them. Tucker.” 

“Where _ is _ Tucker?” grey-and-yellow asks. 

“Being shouted at by a bunch of assholes,” Grif answers him. 

“Kimball and Doyle!” Donut clarifies cheerfully before he takes a bite of his… mush. Military mush. Well, Grif’s rapidly finding things out about himself today (for obvious reasons), and one of those things is that he isn’t picky. He digs into his mush too. 

“And Sarge,” Hottie added. “I think he just joined in for the fun of shouting at a Blue. Something about nostalgia, he said.” 

“I should probably go and join them.” Grey-and-yellow stood up from the bench, abandoning his half eaten mush. Grif eyed it with consideration. Could he just…? 

Those who snooze, lose. He snatched the abandoned bowl before anyone else beat him to the punch. 

“Yeah, because between the three of them they don’t have enough lung capacity already,” Hottie huffs. 

“You _ are  _ in a mood,” Donut comments. “You’re usually so polite to Wash!” 

Grif scrapes the remains of grey-and-yellow’s (Wash’s?) meal into his own bowl, and out of the corner of his eye he thinks he sees Hottie’s helmet tilt in his direction, watching him. Hottie’s shoulders seem to slump a little from their tensed position. 

“Well, shit is weird right now, obviously. But if Grif’s stealing food, it can’t be  _ too  _ weird. Now, if he stopped, that’d be one of the signs of the apocalypse right there.” 

“I’d be more than happy to help assuage your fears of the world ending,” Grif offered, hand inching towards Hottie’s tray. He gets his hand smacked for his troubles, and he rubs it with exaggerated pain and betrayal. 

“Screw you, this is my food,” Hottie said, and finally reached up to take off his helmet. 

“Holy shit,” Grif said. 

Holy shit. Redhead (yes), freckles  _ (yes), _ piercing green eye  _ (hell yes), _ high cheekbones _ (fucking hell yes), _ and he was a  _ goddamn motherfucking cyborg _ (WHOSE DICK HAD HE SUCKED IN HIS PAST LIFE). 

“What?” Hottie asked defensively, drawing into himself and clutching his helmet to his chest instead of putting it down on the table. 

“Who  _ hasn’t  _ daydreamed about the Terminator?” Grif said. 

_ “What,” _ Hottie repeated, edging more into confused-and-angry-about-it than please-don’t-say-something-mean-to-me territory. Grif was a little bit too busy imagining him sitting on a Harley and saying  _ come with me if you want to live.  _ And he was shirtless. One was allowed to take some artistic liberties with reboots, he thought. 

“HELLO,” someone shouted behind him, abruptly and rudely awakening him from the image of Hottie wrestling with the other Terminator, who was also shirtless because they didn’t have shirts in the future. Damn Skynet and their sexy inscrutable agenda. 

Hottie and Donut didn’t so much as flinch, which he thought was a little strange given how jumpy Hottie came across as. 

“Hi Caboose!” Donut greets the newcomer happily. 

“Hello Lieutenant Eclair, except I already said hello…” Caboose drifted into thoughtful (?) silence for a moment, before Hottie broke him out of it by saying hi as well. Grif echoed them a little uncertainly, and then decided to go back to his food gruel. 

“Agent Washingtub said that Gruf was sick,” Caboose said, and then leaned very far into his personal space. Grif reluctantly put down his spoon, not really sure how he was supposed to eat like this without getting food on Caboose’s face in the process. It’d be a waste. “Do you need tissues?” he asked with incredible earnestness. 

“I don’t have a cold,” he said, trying to lean away without falling off the bench. Caboose kept following him. 

“Oh! You need a bucket, then.” 

“He’s not going to puke, he… his mind got a little messed up. He doesn’t remember us… anything, right now,” Hottie said glumly. He sounded like a kicked puppy. Grif would’ve taken the time to have some emotions about that, probably, if it weren’t for the fact that Caboose was taking up all of his attention. He was forced to stop inching away if he didn’t want to fall onto the floor, but Caboose didn’t stop along with him. His helmet gently bumped against Grif’s forehead. 

“Ow,” Grif said flatly. 

There was a pause. 

“Ow!” Caboose said belatedly, but he seemed to be trying to make up for it with enthusiasm. “What, uh, what were you saying, Simon? Sorry, I got distracted with our staring match.” (Was that what that was…?)

Oh, had he finally found out Hottie’s name? 

“For the last time, my name isn’t Simon!” 

… Apparently not. Whatever, Simon was a boring name anyways. Plus, it was kinda fun just thinking of him as Hottie. And _ really  _ fun saying it out loud in front of him. Wait, holy shit, Grif could finally fluster him with _ his helmet off!  _ He had a feeling Hottie was definitely not the type to have a decent poker face. 

“And I said he’s got amnesia. Do you know what that is?” 

“Oh, like the lady’s husband on the Sargeant’s stories!” 

“You mean his soaps? Yeah, sure, like that probably.” 

Grif shoves Caboose out of his face, who thankfully peacefully goes along with being pushed away, and he turns Hottie’s way, already smiling with anticipation. He’s going to get a _ great  _ expression out of this, he can already tell. 

“Well that’s easy!” Caboose says happily and in his peripheral vision Grif notices him raising his hand like he’s getting ready to ask teacher a question. “You just have to--” 

“Oh no,” Donut says. “Caboose  _ this isn’t like Ernesto and Carmensita’s amnesia plot line--”  _

“Wait wha--” Hottie says. 

“--hit him on the head like Sargeant does with the toaster when it--” 

_ “THAT ALWAYS MAKES THE TOASTER WORSE,” _ Donut shrieks and then--

And then Grif experiences the kind of pain that you aren’t coherent enough to say ‘ow’ for, radiating down from the top of his skull. 

At least Hottie  _ does _ make a pretty incredible expression. Not as cute as the one he'd been angling for, though. 

Everything goes dark. 


	5. Nurse Hottie

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Dude,” Grif says, “I think I remember something!”
> 
> “Really!?” Simmons shrieks. “That actually worked!?”

“He’s got a concussion, but it’s nothing serious,” Grey says, and Simmons slumps into his seat with relief. Really, when _Caboose_ hits you on the head, that’s the best you can hope for. “I mean, ignoring that whole Tower of Amnesia thing or whatever it’s called! You can take him back to his room now. Remember, not letting people with a concussion sleep is just a myth! If your body wants to sleep, it’s probably because it needs sleep.”

“Okay,” Simmons says weakly. He can’t keep Grif awake against his will when he’s perfectly healthy anyways (or as healthy as Grif could ever get).

“Oh, and do me a favor and send Caboose my way, would you? I need to teach him some things about non-theatrical amnesia, by which I mean I’m going to scream at him that hitting patients in the head never helps repeatedly for about an hour or so. God knows I need the stress relief!” Grey laughs pleasantly and Simmons joins in weakly, disturbed.

Grey stops laughing so abruptly that Simmons follows suit as well, and she smiles at him pleasantly.

God, she’s the single most intimidating woman he’s ever met, and Simmons thinks most women are inherently intimidating just by being women in the first place.

“I’m just going to… go get Grif and leave,” he forces himself to say and stands up.

“Have a _great_ day!” Grey sing songs, and Simmons nods warily.

“You too.” This has kind of been one of the worst days of his life so far, but if Grey thinks it can still be turned around then more power to her.

Simmons goes and gets Grif. He finds him blinking blearily at a wall, sitting at one infirmary beds, dressed in his fatigues.

“Hey, Grif, let’s get you to your room where you can take a nap, okay?” he says, phrasing it in the way he knows will be the most tempting for him. Grif blinks at the wall for another second, and then belatedly turns to blink at Simmons. He smiles encouragingly, awkwardly, and Grif’s eyes widen.

“Dude,” Grif says, “I think I remember something!”

 _“Really!?”_ Simmons shrieks. “That actually worked!?”

Grif winces at Simmons’ shout, and he cringes, face flushing.

“Um, yeah,” Grif says, and Simmons’ laser focus is back on him, distracted from his embarrassment.

“What do you remember?” he asks, coming to sit next to Grif, ravenously curious. Is it something about him? Did he remember something about Simmons? Hopefully something not too embarrassing, that’d be just like Grif to remember him during one of his worse moments, but anything was better than nothing--

“You,” Grif says, and Simmons’ heart lifts in a really dumb way and he tamps down on his smile in favor of giving him an expectant look as Grif frowns off into the distance, brow furrowed, clearly deep in thought and trying to remember. “We were together.” They more often than not are. “Somewhere dark.” Probably not their Blood Gulch days then. “Alone.” Okay… “And naked?”

Simmons’ brain short circuits.

“And we were touching a lot, and you kept saying my name, and--”

“YOU MUST BE IMAGINING THAT,” Simmons says, definitely not losing control of the volume of his voice, definitely not completely red in the face, _definitely_ not thinking about the Tower of Procreation and _Grif would’ve never brought that up if he had all of his memories they’d been doing such a good job of skirting the subject and acting like nothing happened and WHY WAS THIS THE FIRST MEMORY HE GOT BACK NOTHING WAS FAIR LIFE WASN’T FAIR WHY COULDN’T GOD JUST STRIKE HIM DOWN WHERE HE STOOD_

“Uh, no, I definitely don’t think so,” Grif says, eyes unfocused, swaying a little where he sat with dizziness. “That… totally happened, holy shit we _did_ have sex. That’s awesome.”

Simmons hunches over where he sits and screams as quietly and muffled as he can into his hands.

* * *

Simmons doesn’t abandon Grif in the infirmary with a concussion, but it’s a close thing. It’s with near saint like bravery and heroism that he stands up, grabs Grif’s wrist, and drags him to his room, desperately avoiding eye contact the entire time while his face burns. He desperately shushes him whenever Grif speaks up to comment on another detail he’s remembered, like how many times Simmons came, or how the curtains matched the drapes, or or or--

Simmons wonders whose balls he kicked in a past life to deserve this.

He shoves Grif into his bed, who leers at him, causing Simmons to draw his hand back like he was scalded.

“Nurse Hottie, could you get me a glass of water?” he asks, and the only reason Simmons actually does so despite the name (and the eyebrow waggling) is because his overheated brain can’t take being in the same room as Grif’s lingering eyes and filthy mouth for another second and he needs an excuse. When he comes back, Grif is asleep, and really, he should’ve seen this coming.

He leaves the glass of water on Grif’s bedside table and leaves, even though leaving him alone with a concussion kicks up a little hornet of anxiety in the back of his head. But Doctor Grey said that it was nothing serious, and he’s just sleeping anyways, and the radio’s only a few feet away (does he even remember how to use it? No, no, stop it, stop worrying), and he’s got a chore to do. And Simmons doesn’t put off his chores.

Simmons finds Caboose.

“Is Gruf okay?” is the first thing he asks, anxious and worried, and just like always Simmons softens inevitably in front of him. He’s a walking mess, a talking disaster, but his intentions are always so good Simmons can’t fucking stay mad at him.

“Yeah, he just needs to sleep it off, which he has no complaints about,” he says, and Caboose says “phew!” Like the word, not the sound. It sounds sincere though.

“Buuut, Doctor Grey did ask to see you,” he bursts his bubble reluctantly, knowing how much Grey can spook him. Simmons entirely understands. Anyone who wasn’t spooked by Grey was… well, Tucker at his horniest, to be honest. Simmons had no idea how he was still alive.

“Oh, she probably just wants to give me more meds,” Caboose said obliviously, and Simmons forced a smile.

“Sure! Yeah! Definitely just that! You should go see her!”

“Okay! Oh, by the way, is Gruf okay?”

Caboose could be a little forgetful sometimes.

“Yeah, he even remembered some stuff,” he reassures, and then bites his tongue, abruptly overcome with regret. _Please_ don’t ask what he’s remembered, please, please, please…

“I knew hitting him would work!” Caboose says, and wow, Simmons did just accidentally encourage that, didn’t he.

“Umm,” he says, unsure if he should just let Grey take care of that little misconception.

“Hitting him helped, you say?” Sarge asks, appearing out of nowhere and making Simmons scream a little. Everyone ignores it. If people stopped to make fun of Simmons every time he got startled and made an embarrassing noise it… it’d be high school, actually, but also a whole lot of wasted time.

“Sarge, no, it’s probably just a coincidence,” he protests. Normally he has no trouble with Sarge lightly battering Grif a bit, but right now it’d just feel like kicking him while he’s down. Because it is.

Sarge hums skeptically at him.

“Can you please help show Caboose to Doctor Grey?” he asks desperately, grasping for straws. Maybe she’ll shout at him some as well about hitting not helping amnesia one bit.

Sarge brightens. “Oh ho, the little lady needs help, eh? Well, don’t mind if I do!” And then he hooks his hand around Caboose’s impressive bicep and drags him away, already nattering on about something, Caboose nodding along with blissfully ignorant interest.

Simmons stares, and tries not to think about Tucker’s obvious lies that he’d walked in on Sarge and Grey kissing last week, no, really, guys!

He shakes his head and walks on. He’s got more chores to do, after all.

He’s got some questions for Santa.


	6. emotionally constipated enough to fill an entire feelings sewer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tucker was out of there so fast he didn’t have time to see Simmons waiting just outside of the room for him and crashed right into him.
> 
> “What the fuck!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I. I just realized that I accidentally unkilled Doyle in this AU. I love him so much that I didn't even think about it. "Yes, of course my sweet General Doyle is alive and drinking tea in the background while Grif and Simmons angst about whether or not they should smooch, duh. Obviously." I'm terrible.

“--who knows how long Captain Grif’s condition will--”

Kimball, repeatedly reminding him about the consequences of his actions as if he didn’t already realize (obsess) over them. 

“--have to admit you need to start being more careful while you’re in these towers, Tucker--” 

Wash, being infuriatingly reasonable with an edge of sternness that Tucker just couldn’t read any way but _ condescending.  _

“--just because he’s our most useless man doesn’t mean that I’ll tolerate your Blue plots--” 

Sarge, being crazy as usual. He’d been inured to his nonsense for years now, so that was… tolerable. 

“--Colonel I don’t think there’s any disagreement between anyone whether or not this whole thing was just a terrible mistake--”

Doyle, getting distracted and accidentally sort of arguing for him (nice). 

“--could very well last for the rest of his life depending on how long Sangheili life spans are--”

“--like you could just wait to activate your sword until you’ve asked Santa a few questions--”

“--CONSPIRING to bring down the glorious Red Army, you underhanded little--”

“--now let’s not get nasty Colonel--”

On the whole, it’d almost be bearable if it wasn’t for how _ long  _ it was taking. Jesus Christ, they could just go on and on and  _ on-- _

There was a near imperceptible _ ding _ underneath all of the yammering, and then-- 

“Shit,” Kimball said. “I got a message, I have to take care of this. Government to run, you know.” And then she left, and Tucker didn’t even try to suppress his sigh of relief. She was one of the worst ones to deal with, to be honest. 

_ Ding.  _

“Oh, darn it, that must be the message she got. Gosh, it looks pretty serious.” Bye, Doyle! 

_ Ding. _

“Caboose did WHAT?” Bye, Wash? 

_ Ding. _

No way. “That big lug of Blue did what now!? I always knew that son of a gun had a streak of deviousness hidden deep, DEEP inside of him. Otherwise, why would he be a Blue?”  And then Tucker was suddenly, blessedly alone. 

He’d technically not been dismissed. He was supposed to wait until they returned from dealing with their various (possible the very same Caboose-shaped) crises so that they could finish their dressing down. 

… Pffffft, fuck that! Tucker was out of there so fast he didn’t have time to see Simmons waiting just outside of the room for him and crashed right into him. 

“What the fuck!” It didn’t matter which of them had said that, because Tucker was sure that the both of them pretty firmly agreed with the sentiment. 

“What are you doing here? Because if you’re here to suck up to Sarge or any of the others I’m sorry to tell you--not--but they’re long gone.” 

“Didn’t you get my message?” Simmons asked, clearly peeved, standing up. 

“Nah, the last time Kimball noticed that I hadn’t turned my comms off for one of her lectures about responsibility and what the fuck ever she had one hell of a shitfit.” Tucker paused for a moment to let an innuendo about how he could help her unwind come to him before he realized something. “Wait one goddamn moment! That  _ hypocrite. _ Oh, and Wash too, he sided with her that time!” 

“Question,” Simmons said. “Did she notice that your comms were on because you were using them to bitch about Kimball shouting at you to Grif  _ while _ she was shouting at you?” 

“... My external mics were  _ muted _ , it shouldn’t have mattered--” 

“Okay, whatever, it doesn’t matter. My message to you--” 

“That’s what I’m saying! It doesn’t matter if I--!” 

“I was the one that sent those fake emergency messages to Sarge, Wash, and the Generals, okay? And I’m here to--” 

“What!?” Tucker interrupted, delighted. “Richard Simmons, brown nose extraordinaire,  _ breaking the rules? _ Pranking the higher ups? Are you a pod person? You do realize that you are going to be in a metric ton of shit for this, right?” 

“I made sure that they won’t find out it’s me,” he said firmly. “And it wasn’t a  _ prank, _ I just needed to borrow you for a while!” 

“Dude,” Tucker said. “You sprang me out of prison.” 

“I helped you not be yelled at.” 

“The point is, that was seriously nice of you! And we don’t exactly, like, hang. What’s got you in such a generous mood?” He leered and waggled his eyebrows. “Did you and Grif--” 

“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about and we don’t have time for it anyways,” Simmons interrupted him in hurried rush. Tucker would bet his desserts for the next month that he was blushing the same color as his armor underneath that helmet. “I need you to come with me to that damn tower that messed up Grif and activate your sword so we can ask Santa some more questions.” 

“Oh, dude,” Tucker said. “That’s so far away though. And scouts report that there’s still some space pirate activity around there, no way am I going back there with just a Red for backup again, oh my god what if you got amnesia too, Kimball would be  _ so  _ fucking pissed--”

“It’s for Grif!” Simmons said indignantly, and then did that vaguely squirmy-shrinking thing he did when he was accidentally too sincere in a vulnerable sort of way or whatever. Reds were exhausting. Say what you will about Blues being too dramatic (and Tucker was NOT as bad as Wash or Church okay), but at least they weren’t emotionally constipated enough to fill an entire feelings sewer on their lonesome. 

“Dude, if you want to ask Santa some questions you do realize that we can just ask him from any tower, right?” 

Simmons stilled, managing to give off a very obvious embarrassed air despite his full armor. “Oh. What's the nearest tower?” 

“The most useless one to have close to you during a bitter war for survival, of course,” Tucker sighed. Fuck their luck, seriously. “The Tower of Interior Decorating.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know. I know. People interrupted and talked over each other WAY too much this chapter. So many hyphens, ugh.


	7. strong feelings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simmons shuddered. “Let’s just talk to Santa and leave,” he said, unsettled.
> 
> “Leave it to you to let the Tower of Interior Decoration freak you out,” Tucker snorted, but he activated his sword with a soft hum.

Simmons wouldn’t exactly call himself stylish, nor would anyone else in their right mind. He wasn’t a disaster with a land fill of a room like Grif, but when he didn’t get to use his signature color he defaulted to safe beiges and whites and such, the closest he’d ever gotten to putting art on his walls was his Star Wars posters, and he arranged his furniture by order of efficiency, not aesthetic. It mattered to him that his place of living (preferably all places he had to occupy, really) was clean less because he liked the way it looked and more because whenever he was around dirty clothes or moldy plates the fact of their existence buzzed around inside his skull irritably, distractingly, incessantly, like a mosquito you just couldn’t seem to manage to kill-- until he broke out the febreeze and got rid of the problem, at least. 

But even he could tell that the Tower of Interior Decoration looked  _ good as hell.  _

“My god,” Tucker said, looking around the interior of the tower (of the tower of interior-- no, he was better than this). “I should’ve come here _ way  _ sooner. With a date, because no one would be able to resist getting into the mood in a place like this. I’m kinda hard already.” 

“TMI,” Simmons said, glad for the stiff, unyielding cod pieces that effectively hid whatever was happening in Tucker’s… crotchal area. It was hard to tell when he was joking or not about that kinda stuff. 

“Oh, you’re here,” Tucker said, as if Simmons had just slipped his mind even though this whole thing had been his idea in the first place. “Aw, little Tucker’s flagging! Good going, dickhead.” 

Simmons narrowed his eyes at the Blue with annoyance, before shaking his head and turning his attention back to his surroundings. It wasn’t a struggle; it really  _ was  _ stunningly good interior decorating. Maroon walls, plush leather couches and armchairs (with fluffy pillows in the corners and cozy looking blankets thrown over the back of them that, say, Grif might like), a quite frankly impressive entertainment system, a brand new coffee table with coasters, framed and autographed Battlestar Galactica posters-- 

Wait one fucking moment. 

“How the hell did these Sangheili get their hands… claws… things on Battlestar Galactica posters signed by the fucking director of the show himself? Because I’m pretty sure interspecies relations at the time weren’t just not friendly back when he was still alive, they were  _ nonexistent.” _

“What?” Tucker asked. “I don’t see any nerdy posters, dude, just some sweet fucking pinups. Oh holy fuck, a disco ball!  _ Cool.”  _

Simmons looked around wildly for any sort of disco ball. He did not find it. Or any pinups, for that matter. 

“Are you messing with me?” 

“About what?” Tucker asked, walking on ahead of him. “Jesus, I didn’t know good carpeting could make me so happy,  _ bow chika bow wow.”  _

The floors were a pleasant dark wood floor paneling. 

Several connections snapped into place for him all at once. “Oh! The Tower must be projecting our ideal interior decoration straight into our brains instead of letting us see our true environment! That’s… kinda creepy to be honest…” 

“Blah, blah, whatever nerd shit you just said,” Tucker said, visor angled towards what for Simmons looked like a Pacific Rim poster signed by John Boyega and Idris Elba themselves, but it probably just looked like a sultry lady in a bikini to Tucker. And who the fuck knew what it  _ really _ was. 

Simmons shuddered. “Let’s just talk to Santa and leave,” he said, unsettled. 

“Leave it to you to let the Tower of  _ Interior Decoration _ freak you out,” Tucker snorted, but he activated his sword with a soft hum. 

“Greetings,” Santa said behind them, and Simmons yelped and turned around so fast he almost tripped over his own feet. 

“He always does that,” Tucker said without a drop of fondness in his tone. 

“Do you require assistance?” 

“Yeah, uh, we’ve got some follow up questions about that whole Grif thing,” Tucker answered while Simmons was still focusing on bringing his rabbit-quick pulse down. 

“I will answer any question I know the answer to,” Santa said. 

“Um,” Simmons regathered his wits. “Okay, great. So, first of all, you said that nothing but time would bring Grif’s memories back, but Caboose hit him on the head and he remembered… something. Was that, like, unrelated?” He couldn’t help sounding so uncertain in front of the AI. Sangheili were WAY too big. 

“Wait, what?” Tucker interrupted Santa’s incoming response. “Oh hell yeah, Blue Team fixes the problem yet again!”

“Blue Team was the one that  _ caused _ the problem in the first place, Tucker.” 

“Debatable.” 

“It really isn’t!” 

“Do you still desire an answer to your question?” 

“YES!” 

“It is likely that it was not unrelated,” Santa said. 

Simmons was at the same time eager to have an excuse to repeatedly hit Grif on his infuriating skull, and dreading getting Sarge to hold back. 

“What the fuck!?” Tucker burst out. “You said we could only wait it out, but now all of a sudden blunt force trauma fixes everything?” 

“Blunt force trauma will not fix everything and I would not advise it. Your species unarmored primate skulls are disturbingly fragile.” 

“Hey,” Simmons couldn’t help saying a little bit defensively. 

“You asked me if there was anything that would fix Dexter Grif, and I said that nothing but time would do so because that is the truth. But external stimuli might hasten that time some.” 

“Well, why didn’t you say so earlier?” Tucker demanded. 

“You didn’t ask.” 

“You’re the worst, Santa.” 

“I did not think external stimuli would help so  _ much, _ though. I did not want to give you false hope. Perhaps this has something to do with the biological differences between our species. What is it that he remembered? How much of it does he remember?” Santa went on. 

“Um,” Simmons floundered. “He remembered… an event. He seemed kinda hazy about the specifics of it at the beginning, but that might have just been the concussion because as more time went on the more he remembered about… the event. It seemed. The event. Which lasted. Several hours.” 

Simmons avoided acknowledging the event even inside his own mind, so he especially wasn’t going to do it out loud in front of  _ Tucker. _ Of all people. It was the only thing he could talk about for days after he found out. At least whenever Simmons was around. 

Santa hummed thoughtfully. 

“That’s his buffering noise,” Tucker stage whispered to him. 

“I have concluded that more external stimulation may significantly hasten the return of Dexter Grif’s memories,” Santa spoke up suddenly. “But please don’t hit him on the head again.” 

“Bummer,” Tucker said. 

“So what other kind of external stimulation might work, then?” Simmons asked. 

“You could tell him stories of your past,” Santa suggested. 

“Okay…” 

“Hey, so, if we embellish those stories a little bit do you think the the new and improved details will stick?” Tucker asked. “I’m thinking about giving my Blood Gulch self three girlfriends and the abs I have now.” 

“Do you have any other questions?” Santa asked, ignoring Tucker in a move that strongly upped the chances that the AI had sentience in Simmons’ mind. 

“Uh, yeah, just one,” Simmons said. “He’s… acting really weird. Like, he has strong feelings for people that don’t really make sense.” 

“Such as?” Santa asked. Stupid ancient alien AIs and their need for clarifying questions… 

“Oh ho, you mean like the strong feelings in his pants he’s got for your a--” 

“He immediately felt a strong dislike for Sarge,” Simmons cut in, even though that wasn’t what was really bothering him. If Grif and Sarge didn’t immediately get along badly then  _ that _ would have bothered him. He would have assumed the incoming apocalypse, or perhaps some sort of Twilight Zone. 

“What was Dexter Grif and Sarge’s relationship like before the memory loss?” 

“... Tense,” Simmons finally settled on. 

“Then that makes sense,” Santa said. “While the Tower of Amnesia may take away people’s memories, it cannot take away the way they feel about someone if those emotions are cemented enough.” 

You could hear a pin drop inside of the tower. 

“... Dude,” Tucker broke the silence. “At this point, I think the ancient magical alien towers just really want you two to start dating.” 

Simmons turned around and walked out of the tower, accidentally shoving Tucker into a wall on his way out. 

_ Click. _

“... Did I just press a button?” Tucker asked. 

If Santa answered him, Simmons didn’t hear him, and he didn’t bother asking Tucker about it when he came back out for the short drive back to base. 


	8. an eighties sex nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There was a pause. 
> 
>  
> 
> “... Hottie?” he asked, confused, incredulous. And then: “Oh. Oh my god. I forgot to tell you my name.” 

Grif discovers that he’s a deep sleeper. He’s not surprised. It feels right. He wakes up to no headache, an empty room, and a glass of water waiting for him on the nightstand by the bed. And an empty stomach. He stands up and downs the glass of water, trying to remember the route from the bedroom to the mess hall, not entirely successfully. He wasn’t really totally conscious and lucid for all of that. Well, he’ll just have to wing it and sees what he manages. He can already tell that he’s not the type of guy who’d hesitate to steal someone else’s lunch. Hey, if they didn’t want it stolen they’d keep a closer eye on it.

He idly wonders if those sheer white gauzy curtains had always been hanging from that window, before shrugging. Hey, what did he know? He was still recovering from a concussion, not even to mention the amnesia.

He leaves the room and wanders the halls, walking in the vague direction of where he _thought_ the mess hall was. Okay, the hallways _definitely_ hadn’t always been covered in teal wallpaper and fuzzy purple carpeting. At least he didn’t think so. Whatever, who was he to say how a military base ought to design its buildings? As long as there were compartments to store and hide food in and some soft surfaces nearby, then he was satisfied.

He bumps into someone he doesn’t recognize who makes an expression like they know him. It’s beginning to be an annoyingly familiar experience. Grif looks down at a skinny-as-a-twig, young-enough-for-voice-cracks looking little nerd.

“Captain Grif!” he said in a way that was way too peppy and bright for so early in the morning, never mind that it was probably closer to late in the afternoon. “I’d heard you were sick--” that’s one way of putting it, “so I was just coming over to your room with a fruit basket.” He hoisted said fruit basket up in the air as proof-- were they supposed to be that big? Were there supposed to be _Oreos_ in fruit baskets?

Grif’s mouth waters. He knows suddenly, bone deep, that Oreos are his favorite goddamn food in the world. He can practically taste the phantom memories of them.

“Are you already feeling better, if you’re out of your room? And hey, do know what’s going with all of these weird changes to the base? When I got back from training to my room it was covered in _lava lamps--”_

He’s not really sure what his dynamic with this dork is when he’s firing on all cylinders, so he just decides to snatch the fruit basket out of the guy’s hands before he changes his mind about giving away all of that food and escape back to what was apparently his room. He hears a dismayed cry behind him, but that’s obviously a problem for future Grif.

He shuts the door behind him and--

Okay. Okay. He is absolutely one hundred percent _stone cold sure_ about this: that bed was not heartshaped the last time he was in it. Had he maybe accidentally gone into the wrong room? Nope, there was the empty glass of water, there were the gauzy curtains, there were some of the armor pieces he hadn’t bothered putting back on before heading out in search of food.

He thinks about this new development intently for a moment. Another moment.

He shrugs, sits down on the bed, careless of the strewn rose petals on the covers, and digs into his fruit basket. He makes the tactical decision to focus on the non-fruit parts of it first. People who saved dessert for later were losers just asking for something to go wrong before they got to enjoy it. Case in point: just as he’d popped the last Oreo into his mouth and had begun considering the grapes, Hottie burst into the room far too dramatically.

They stared at each other.

“Did you steal a fruit basket from the infirmary because you couldn’t be bothered to walk all the way to the mess hall again?” Hottie broke the silence.

“I don’t remember doing that, so it doesn’t count,” Grif said. “Also, I rightfully earned this fruit basket. Because I’m ‘sick’.” He gave him a mock oh-I’m-so-sad-and-miserable look but Hottie just closes the door behind him.

“It does count,” Hottie says approaching him slowly. “Because even if you don’t remember it, you did it. It _happened._ Does it ring any bells?”

“Uh,” he says, slowly cueing in on the fact that there was a _weird_ ass vibe going on between them right now. Kinda… intense.

“Donut had rolled his ankle during training,” Hottie said leadingly, like Grif would jump in and tell the rest of the story on his own, “and Doc had gotten him some chocolates and strawberries as a gift. You opened a wrapper expecting a mint and instead found a condom. You shrieked like a little girl.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d do,” he denied, even though it sounded just embarrassing enough to be unfortunately true.

Hottie hadn’t stopped approaching him while they’d talked. He now stopped, standing very, very close. Grif, sitting down, had to crane his neck to look up into his visor.

“Well, you did,” Hottie argued weakly, distractedly, looking down at him. Grif wished he could see his face.

“Whatcha looking at, Hottie?” he asked, mouth dry, leaning back, fruit basket forgotten in his lap, his hands planted on the bed, arms supporting his weight. He kinda wanted to lean forwards instead.

There was a pause.

“... Hottie?” he asked, confused, incredulous. And then: “Oh. Oh my god. _I forgot to tell you my name.”_

“Yeah, you did!” Grif said, momentarily broken out the haze of lust he’d been sinking into to delight in the feeling of flustering Hottie. They were both emotions that he greatly enjoyed, really, so he didn’t mind. “I _told_ you I didn’t know your name and you just got distracted like a dumbass anyways. I’ve been thinking of you as Hottie this _whole time.”_

“Oh my _god,”_ Hottie moaned, hiding his helmeted face in his hands as if he had to cover his expression.

“So do you want to moan ‘oh my god’ any more tonight, because I’d be willing to help you out with that--”

“Oh my god!”

“Yeah, like that! Except with less mortification and more sheer, unrestrained arousal--”

Hottie interrupted him with a pained, strangled yell. _“Simmons!”_ he shouted when he seemed to have finally mustered his wits enough to form and utter words. “That’s my name! Simmons! So you can stop calling me-- _that_ now.”

After a long silence, Simmons peeked cautiously through his fingers down at him. Grif was staring up at him silently, mouth slack, eyes wide.

“... Grif?”

Simmons.

Simmons.

_Simmons._

Ohhhhhhhh fuck.

“I,” he said. “IIIIIII am gonna need you to leave now.”

“What?” Simmons asked.

Grif didn’t really want to scream into his pillow for the next two hours in front of his best friend/long time crush, you see.

“Just, just skedaddle along, please.”

_“Skedaddle along please?”_

Grif wanted to bite his own tongue off so he’d never speak again. And then be swallowed up by the ground. He squirmed where he sat, unused to being this embarrassed. He was the _flusterer,_ not the _flustee._ How much of this would he be able to pass off as just amnesia-madness? All of it? Please?

“Why are you being so weird?” A pause. “I mean, a different kind of weird from before, at least. I know it’s not because you went on another trip to a weird alien tower with Tucker because _I_ was doing that.”

“Oh,” he said weakly, hoping to distract. “Is that why the whole base looks like an eighties sex nightmare?”

“Yeah, I think he changed the interior decorating of all of Chorus to match his tastes. Donut is going to _lose it.”_

“Wow, I didn’t think he’d be _this_ tacky.”

“Right?” Simmons seemed to be relaxed, which was good, keep things from being weird, keep him focused on unimportant bullshit--

Simmons tensed up. Fuck. “Wait,” he said with dawning realization. “You’re… you’re acting _normal.”_

Fuuuuck. Grif opened his mouth to fire off a cheesy one liner because he was _not_ ready to face the consequences of all the crazy shit he’d said while hopped up on the unbelievably carefree freedom of alien-amnesia-juice. Why not pretend to be fun, stupid, innocent, amnesia Grif for just a little while longer, long enough for him to gather his composure, at least? Regaining his memories in front of Simmons made his face feel like it was on fire. He was internally fighting tooth and nail for his poker face.

But he couldn’t do it. He tried to think about saying something flirty to Simmons and he wanted to curl up into a ball and die, his tongue sticking to the roof of his mouth. Something sincerely flirty. To _Simmons._ Oh god.

“Did you get your memories back?” Simmons asked, and why did he have to be all smart when it was inconvenient for Grif, huh? “Did me saying my name give you your memories back, Grif?”

It sounded so _cheesy_ when he said it out loud like that.

“No,” he lied. “It was the story about me almost accidentally eating Doc and Donut’s condoms that did it.”

“Oh thank god,” Simmons said. “That means I can--”

And then he took his helmet off without finishing his sentence, leaned down, and kissed Grif. The pressure of his lips was hard, intense, burning hot, scorching away any thoughts that had been in his head a moment ago, every last trace of embarrassment. The pressure disappears, briefly.

 _“You,”_ Simmons said intently, his hot breath washing over Grif’s tingling lips, “have been _such_ a fucking tease.”

And the pressure returned.

Grif didn’t have it in him to protest that amnesia Grif (and normal Grif, to be perfectly honest) had been quite literally ready to go at _any_ time. That would require the kissing to stop.

They made good use of the stupidly big bed Tucker’s imagination had made for them.


End file.
